[...So, so greedy, but Lobelia doesn't rebuke him with anything more than a laugh. So much for outpacing the old man, eh? The stroking of his hand elicits an entirely different sort of pleasure, Lobelia finds, than the bone-deep fire that burns in him whenever Vergilius' cock strikes something sensitive within him.
The flames his hand stokes are much more familiar, eliciting a wave of shivers and the low, guttering moans to match. His fingers, once firmly grasping Vergilius' shoulders, have begun to quiver. That smile... It's almost unnerving, so different from what Lobelia is used to from the man. All the same, it's alluring, inviting, and Lobelia gives into the temptation to lean in and kiss him.
It's a mess of heavy breaths and clicking teeth, his attention too thoroughly divided between one source of pleasure and the next, Vergilius' palm stained damp with his precum. With each passing moment, he throws down more and more of his weight onto Vergilius' hips, the cadence of their bodies as pleasing to his ears as it is to every other part of him. He won't last much longer, his kisses devolving to little more than shameless panting into Vergilius' mouth, but he resists the urge to come as long as he can. A little more time to remain like this, a little more time to savor it, and more importantly, if this bliss must end, he wants it to end right where it began— with Vergilius.]
[He's panting the man's name now. Lobelia. Lobelia. Lobelia. Like the last time they did this, its something that spills out of his mouth, unbidden, but there's a tone to it now that sets it apart from before. There, it had been tinged with something he had no name for. Now, it feels like its soaked in it. A comfortable rumble, pleasure sitting in his bones like sunlight bathing an area once thought lost forever in darkness.]
[He is no longer conscious of the garden around them. He's not even fully conscious of their state here, as the dead grasping onto something that for a moment makes them feel alive like nothing before. There's only Lobelia. It all seems to begin and end with him, from the way their bodies press into each other, mouths gasping for air.]
[He can't help but writhe a little as he feels himself continue to move into the other man with reckless abandon, trying to focus on keeping the pace as his hand strokes and grips and keeps hold where he can. Lobelia. Lobelia. Lobelia. The man had ripped out his heart. For some reason the scene comes to mind with no prompting. The pain in his chest like a macabre blossoming flower, the heat of the other's hand inside of him, glinting white teeth set in a pretty, boyish face...]
Ah...
[A hiccup, a gasp, and a groan is all that warns the man as it all seems to crash together, his climax hitting hard as he thrusts his hips up one last time, feeling little twitches of shockwaves moving through his body. One last kiss, stolen as he feels his hand give one last languid stroke to Lobelia, hoping to feel a stream of heat in return.]
[How foolish he's been, how little he's known of joy, of happiness, of all the warmth mutuality could bring. Dutiful as ever, Lobelia is trailing right behind in Vergilius' shadow, crumbling to his elbows when Vergilius' release prompts his own. He knows he's left behind a greater mess than last time, but he can't focus on something so inconsequential when Vergilius is rasping his name over and over again.
Lobelia is as enlivened as he is spent, overwhelmed, that odd dichotomy raging inside of him while he presses sloppy kisses to Vergilius' mouth, savoring every ragged whisper. Lobelia, Lobelia, Lobelia. He's never cared much for his name, it holds a different significance to him now.
"Love and devotion," his parents told him. "That's what lobelias represent." How ironic that he's found some truth to his name after all.
Lobelia rides that wave as far as it will take them, eventually ceding to the hazy afterglow and resting his head on Vergilius' chest. He can hear the same heart he'd torn from his chest beating away, a symbol of the man's staunch refusal to give up even in death. Despite everything, Lobelia finds its thrumming soothing. Still... is it really alright if he stays here? Lobelia doesn't want to part from Vergilius, not just yet, but he slowly begins to pick himself up in the selfish hope that he'll be dragged back down.]
[There it is. His hand is soaked in release even as his fingers let go, the heat of it stinging the wound of his thumb as it goes along. He can't even focus entirely on that, so occupied he is with Lobelia's mouth that it feels like a background melody he's only grasping partially. Even after the kisses are done, he brushes his nose alongside te other's in a light stroke of his own before the full collapse. The weight of the man's body rests against a heaving chest, ear pressed against it, and he vaguely realizes that he's cooling with a perceptible layer of sweat.]
[The strands of the man's hair are tickling his skin. In the haze of his release, Vergilius realizes the shift of the man to move away - and it's like instinct, a kneejerk reflex. His unsoiled hand moves to wrap around the other's shoulders, pulling him down to its proper place.]
[He took something that he wasn't supposed to. He hurt someone he claimed to love. This isn't the first time Vergilius has bid him to remember this fact, but his point failed to stick when he returned the favor and tore Lobelia's heart out in turn. It failed to stick for the days they were apart, wiling away the time in this floral purgatory.
When Vergilius tells him to listen now, Lobelia hears it. It sinks in, echoes in his head over and over and over again. This is what you took from me.
It never mattered how many people he robbed of their happiness in the past. It didn't matter who they were, what their dreams and aspirations were, what lengths they'd gone to in their brief existences to pursue their own happiness. Everyone has the right to be happy, his parents told him, but Lobelia found one convenient excuse after the next to disregard everyone's happiness but his own.
Happiness should be pursued by oneself. Happiness is only for those who have the means to achieve it. Happiness is a finite resource, and if you don't fight for it, you'll never have the chance to grasp it. Excuse after excuse after excuse, and it's all falling apart now beneath the steady thrum of Vergilius' heart.
Lobelia falls silent and very, very still. He had never felt warmth like he does when he's connected to Vergilius, and by the same token, he's never felt such emptiness, such desolation. If nothing else, he manages to draw in a breath, steady himself, to deliver his response. Turning Vergilius' words over and over in his mind, there's only one answer Lobelia can give him.]
Je suis désolé.
[What a horrid feeling regret is. He'll consider himself fortunate if he never has to feel it again.]
[Sometimes, he really thinks he's one the cruelest people in the City. There are many who are cruel, of course. But he, who knows the weight of such cruelty, and uses it to teach lessons to steel people's hearts, perhaps is more vicious with it than most.]
[But even so...even as he finds that soft spot now opened to him and digs into it with little care for if it bleeds, there's the realization that there's a soft spot in the first place. Lobelia had never felt like this before, had he? Vergilius, with the weight of endless regret weighing down his soul, now plucking a bit of it up between thumb and forefinger to place against the other's tongue. The other will never understand the full depths of it, but if he can give him a taste of it, make him understand, feel it to the core of his being, perhaps that mite of cruelty is worth it.]
[But even as he's imparting this lesson, the soft words come. Some of the coldness abates, like frost on a warming fall morning. After a moment, a sigh moves through him as he closes his eyes. He threads his fingers up, brushing through the man's curls of hair.]
[The air is pleasant. It always is. But the heat of the other man is also pleasant, possibly even more so.]
[The taste of it is bitter on his tongue, so much so that he wonders if that's why the corners of his eyes sting so badly. Awful, dreadful. He'd spent so much time eagerly chasing Vergilius down, but now he's arrested by the urge to run from him, from these feelings that have rapidly taken on a weight he's begun to question if he can even carry.
Can he handle this? If he can't get ahold of himself now, then when? Lobelia's eyes scan the horizon, but he says nothing to Vergilius of his desire to flee. That would draw his suspicion, wouldn't it? Out him as a spineless coward, or so he feels when Vergilius takes to stroking through his hair and he can do nothing but squeeze his eyes shut and cede to it. His touch is much too warm, much too inviting, and Lobelia doesn't know how he'll survive without it now.
He has to try, try to affect some sort of calm nonchalance before this miserable feeling overtakes him. It's easy to tell through Lobelia's theatrical sigh that he's forcing himself, but he would rather play a role than let this ugliness inside of himself seep out.]
C'est dommage! I could spend the rest of my life atoning and it would never be enough. Are you quite certain you want to humor me after the harm I've done to you?
[Maybe he'd feel better if Vergilius said no. Maybe this aching in his chest would cease if he admitted to having second thoughts. If only, if only.]
[Now you know how I feel. Now you can see, through one glimpse, what my existence is like, day by day.]
[But none of those words come to mind. Lobelia even reminds him - he is the one who caused him such torment all this time. He deserves the punishment. Even now, the metallic taste of blood splattering on him from his vengeance in the form of a ripped out heart seems potent. Many souls have met their end at the end of this man.]
[But can he judge, himself, when he's made so many orphans out of children? Can he bring retribution, when he himself doesn't feel he's received enough of it himself for his own sins?]
...It's never enough for me. I've accepted that. [After all, he is just a shade in a dark forest, lamenting forever on what has been lost and what will be lost. Nothing will bring his loved ones back. Nothing will completely ease the guilt in his heart. So it goes.] Humor you, though...
[He doesn't know. He does know. His own heart beats fretfully with the weight of emotion he can't even begin to comprehend. Ugly, ugly...they're both ugly creatures. He leans in, his lips trailing against the other's forehead in an almost unconscious little movement.]
[How fitting it is that the man who eases his pains is the one who deals it back to him at full force. Comeuppance has found him in the last place he expected it, but it's deserved, isn't it? Finally, finally, the weight of his sins starts to bear down on his shoulders, but he can't regret harming anyone but this man. He's fortunate, then, that he lacks the heart Vergilius does, because the weight of those sins might just crush him into dust otherwise.
He's not done piling up regrets, either, seeking out comfort from the man he stole everything from. Lobelia leans in like a flower desperate to soak in the sun when his lips brush along his forehead, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding onto him as if he has any right to. If Vergilius desires to, he can brush him off, push him away, and Lobelia won't hold it against him. Until then, his warmth is the only thing keeping that storm raging inside of him from ripping him apart.]
I'm afraid so, but that doesn't mean that you have no choice in the matter. Toss me aside if it suits you, Vergilius. I won't give chase.
[Not anymore, not with all the irrevocable harm he's done. Even an oath made in blood is one Lobelia will agree to rectify if Vergilius truly wishes to be free of him. That would save him some grief, wouldn't it? It won't give him his life back, but it's the only consolation Lobelia can offer him now.]
You're considering my choice now? Not too long ago you trapped me in a world of monsters until I bowed to your whim.
[There's no harshness in his tone as one would expect - he's stating it as fact. That is what happened. This same man now cradled under his arm, both of them naked in a sea of flowers, had been the very one to push him to his limits. He can't forget that. One can't simply wipe away the deeds of yesterday like chalk off a board.]
[And yet, and yet, and yet...]
[I won't give chase.]
[He doesn't know why that statement feels like a needle wedging into his heart. He shouldn't feel this way, damn it-! I deserve it. I don't deserve it. Let me be. I don't want to be alone. You killed me. I killed you. I bound myself to you. I can't stand you. I never want to see you again. I want to keep you close and never let you go. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I l-]
[Vergilius lets out a grunt, his face marred with a grimace. The typical wave of anger, as always. And yet the words that come out may be surprising, something a little melancholy in his tone.]
...You would throw our oath aside, just like that?
[Right, right. It wasn't long ago that he'd take any and every opportunity to hurt Vergilius and derived much satisfaction from it to boot. Shouldn't that alone be enough to damn him to hell, let alone all the pain he's meted out in his life? The only difference is that this man's pain means something to him now, as does protecting him against anything that might seek to cause him agony in the future... but he's a source of that agony, isn't he? Shouldn't he leave? Shouldn't he go? Is it not, at times, compassionate to set the ones you love free?
This was a choice he should've given Vergilius a long, long time ago, back when he wouldn't have deliberated long on his answer. Now that he is, Lobelia's lips curl into a wry smile, finding that sour response to be an answer in and of itself. The words that follow are simply confirmation, one last dagger in his selfish little heart.
He can't let this man go. Not now, not ever. Blessed with reciprocity that he doesn't deserve and has hardly earned, Lobelia sits up on an elbow, frames Vergilius' face in his hand. If he won't leave of his own accord, severing the ties between them, Lobelia stands no chance of accomplishing the same. He won't even try.]
Jamais. I could never do such a thing even if I tried. Surely you realize it too.
[He'd fallen too hard, too fast, too far, after sending himself hurtling into the the darkness in pursuit of him. It's the paradox that has Lobelia measuring his breaths so that the redness in his eyes doesn't give way to anything as shameless as tears, but he very much doubts even this will get past Vergilius. So it goes.]
I would rather cease to be than be without you. At the same time, it's now your happiness I'm responsible for. If you told me to disparaître, I would have to decide between my selfishness and your happiness, non? Rather, I already have.
[Lobelia leans in, presses a kiss to Vergilius' lips and lingers in it. He's so selfish, callous, cruel, and yet he hopes it warms Vergilius just as it warms him. Reciprocation despite it all.]
Je te veux. If you ever wish to sever our oath, you'll have to kill me for good. I lack the strength to do so myself.
[Lobelia definitely hasn't earned any of this. What fool would give an unlovable, selfish, murderous bastard anything such as this for all the sins he has enacted?]
[How funny. Perhaps he should be asking that of himself, too. He's lived in denial so long that its felt he's become less human for it. Destruction is his bread and butter. No one else should be pulled into that. Maybe not even someone like Lobelia, with those strange, reddened eyes that almost feel ready to burst into tears.]
[But the man touches his face, kisses him, and that caged, soft, terrible little black thing he calls a heart skips a little beat, as if he's some schoolboy eager to receive affections from a forbidden crush. He betrays himself, constantly. His own decisions pave the way to hell. He was doomed from the start of meeting the man from Lobelia. Not a fly to a spider, but predators finding they share the same web.]
Kill you for good? You suffered death over and over before this and you're still here. [A kiss, light as a feather.] How laughable. [Another kiss, with a rasp of a sigh.] I would call you a bastard for being invincible just so you can get all you can from this.
[Reciprocation despite it all. His thumb tickles over the nape of the man's neck as he steals yet another kiss for his troubles. his usual deep tone tinged with a sarcastic lightness so uncommon to him.]
So I'll have to figure out my way around this conundrum. Guess you'll have to live a little while longer.
[This really is the happy ending he doesn't deserve. Neither of them are good people, their pasts soaked in blood and their futures certain to be the same, but none of that matters to Lobelia now. He would find himself hopelessly bored with anyone less monstrous than himself, but it's not as if Lobelia ever thought he'd find someone.
To think there could be anyone remotely like himself was too absurd a thought, and yet here he is, trading easy kisses with a man whose body count is as innumerous as his own. Here he is, finding his happiness amongst all that destruction. What part of this is deserved? None of it, but it's yet one more thing Lobelia has eagerly taken without asking, no trace of shame in the way he eagerly moves into every kiss, laughter light on his lips.
The weight of regret is a heavy, burdensome thing, but the lightness in Vergilius' tone does much to keep his discomfort at bay. Everything will be alright so long as he has his guide to follow, right? He'll find his footing in the end, uncertain as each step feels now.]
Mm, but it was only thanks to The Tower that I was brought back again and again to endure more châtiment. Our pact has been severed now.
[...And in its place, he's forged one with Vergilius. Lobelia connects the dots in his head before the words have the chance to leave his mouth, a peal of amusement snaking out of him instead. Pressing their foreheads together, it's his turn to cheekily thieve a kiss.]
That means, should we manage to find our way out of vie après la mort, my fate rests in your hands! Guider or tueur... You'll have to make up your mind eventually.
[No more world. No more destruction - at least, not on the level that Lobelia had enacted before. Just a man, and his gifts.]
...Ah. [And now the dots are connecting for him, too, the implication unsubtle as anything. Lobelia takes that kiss, but Vergilius retaliates by pressing one against his cheek, murmuring into his skin.] So I'm your Tower, now.
[He even doesn't know what to feel about that - its a complicated thorny thing, like so many things are in this relationship. He did want to turn over the world, as part of his dream. To pull out the roots, and lay the field for something new. The place he came from was beyond salvation. He had considered it, and perhaps he became that colossus if only for but a moment, pulled back by the light of a young girl at his side. But it didn't erase it. It's still there. And its maybe why Lobelia was pulled to him as he was.]
[A pact, indeed, was formed. And now the magician is at his beck and call, as easy as anything. Then that's it, then. He will secure that single hope he's fighting for. And then they will both be destroyed for everything they are. If not, the world has another thing coming for it.]
[This flow cannot be stopped.]
I suppose I will. But we're stuck for the time being. How unfortunate. We'll have to work hard for that grand escape.
[This is...not working hard, but they don't really have options here, okay.]
[Yes, he supposes there's some irony to be found in trading out one man-made disaster for another, but there's an important distinction that needs to be drawn here. Slowly sitting himself up, Lobelia extricates himself from Vergilius' lap to settle beside him and— wince, finding the discomfort immediate and not nearly as satisfying as it was when arousal was guiding his every move. Oh well!
Back to the topic on hand, he turns to Vergilius and lifts a finger, looking to make a point.]
You certainly fit the role, but you're more to me than that! I have no intention of utilizing you as some instrument of destruction unless you will it.
[He'd hate for Vergilius to get the wrong idea and assume Lobelia was simply looking for a Tower With Benefits. He could've found a way to fuck The Tower if he wanted to, rest assured.]
And for that matter, I want to be of use to you as well. I insist! Should we start by burning every last blade of grass in this accursed place? Would you like to turn it into a true and proper paysage d'enfer? Heh-ahaha!
[Well, someone's clearly feeling better. That should make Vergilius happy, surely.]
[There Lobelia goes. Enjoy the ache there. Vergilius hopes he does, in his own petty little way. Though he hears "instrument of destruction" and instantly makes a face at that, like he realized something he was eating had gone bad ages ago. (POOR TOWER...SO GLAD U WERE UNFUCKABLE)]
I would hope not. I became a Color to try to avoid that kind of thing. I work where I can, but pity you if you ever deem me as a tool.
[And that comes with its own flare of a red gaze, warning like a red flag. It's not a serious threat, at the very least. He moves his arms upward (pausing to wipe off his hand on the robe between them) before resting his head back with a sigh. He glances over at Lobelia. Burning every last blade of grass in this place...a part of it does think he would take pleasure in that, but...]
Easier said than done. This whole place is that wizard's domain. He could probably fix it with a snap of his fingers...
[Ah, but he'd be Lobelia's tool... Still, that's not how he feels about Vergilius and he very much doubts that will change. In the beginning, he likened him more to a cornered, feral animal willing to fight to the death, but a tool? If that was how he saw Vergilius, he would've moved past his fixation on him long ago.
Thinking about it now, Lobelia sighs — practically swoons — and flops back down on Vergilius and bats his lashes at him.]
Mm, that's right! You're fort and capable and far from a mindless tool. That's what makes you so irrésistible~
[So irresistible that he'll forgive Vergilius for smearing cum on his robe. Be thankful.]
If nothing else, I expect you entertain me while we remain trapped here. You aren't eager to let your skills dull either, non? We'll see how much Monsieur Merlin will let us get away with.
[The brushing off of the compliments is less of an eye roll and more of a general awkwardness in...not really being used to accepting compliments in the first place. Even someone as mighty as a Color seems like he will never get that used to his role.]
[He shakes his head, slightly, but the gears are turning. What ARE they capable of, here? That's a question and a half. Surely Merlin won't mind two men of destruction doing their equivalent of a stretch.]
Entertain you? Don't make me laugh. [He's pulling his hand out to grasp the tip of Lobelia's chin, thumb wound still rough, even though it's no longer bleeding.] But its not like we have many other options. Unless you like doing arts and crafts.
[A man who can't accept compliments? Very cute. Lobelia can't relate, but this is just one more thing to appreciate about Vergilius. As for arts and crafts... Lobelia can't manage to stifle his yawn in time. Purely unintentional, trust him.]
Hm... No, I will leave that to people more artistically inclined.
[Or systematically break everything in the arts and crafts room and enjoy the dulcet tones of pottery smashing. That sounds much more engaging. Lobelia lifts his hand to meet Vergilius', studying the injured tip of his finger before pressing a kiss to it.]
Why don't we clean ourselves up first? We can explore what options we have after that.
Are you saying you're not? Hm. I suppose you can be quite brutish...
[Don't be mean, Vergilius. He murmurs a low noise at the light kiss, fingertip twitching slightly. The other man has a good suggestion, though - after the peak of sex, sometimes the last thing you want to feel is wet and sticky.]
[He's starting to push himself up on his elbows.]
Very well. There was a river nearby, wasn't there?
Heh! I don't suppose you would be any more inclined towards the arts?
[It takes a brute to know one, Vergie. Lobelia sits up and gets to his feet, but it's... effort. Ah. The sex was worth it, but he may take advantage of the hobble in his step to hold onto Vergilius as they make their way towards the lake.
Lobelia doesn't hesitate to twine his arm around Vergilius' and claim his hand for good measure, but before they set off, Lobelia casts a downward glance at their clothes, namely his robes.]
Tsk tsk! You've filthied my clothes, Vergilius. [totally ignoring the fact this was a team effort] We can clean ourselves, but what will I change into?
[He says, almost a little quietly. Sometimes you're a horrifically powerful Guy to the point you're almost an unbeatable cryptid but deep down....you like a good poem or two.]
[He's also moving to stand up, only a slight wobble in his movements as he stands up straight. A sigh comes as he feels the man grasp his hand, but where he would just yank his hand away before, he lets it sit this time. Lobelia's hand feels so slender and soft in his. An amazing thing, given the amount of blood the magician has spilled in his past. He vaguely wonders if he's ever held a weapon before. Probably not.]
Really. [He shoots an unamused glance over his shoulder at the crumpled, stained pile.] Go naked for all I care. You were the one who offered it in the first place.
[Lobelia sounds genuinely surprised, but he doesn't overemphasize his shock, because the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. He accused Vergilius of being a bleeding heart in the past, didn't he? A love of poetry suits Lobelia's mental image of who the man is at his core quite nicely. It's also rather endearing, prompting Lobelia to squeeze Vergilius' hand as they walk through the flowers.]
I shouldn't be humoring you when you're treating me so callously, but alas, you've piqued my curiosité! What sort of poetry moves a weary soul like yours?
[His shoulders shift up and down. He's never really talked about this with....well, no one alive currently, surely. There's a little bit of that vulnerable crack that Lobelia has found it so easy to worm into, and he wonders how the man got so good at it. Something about him naturally feels like it belongs under his skin.]
I don't have any large preferences. But there's something nice about the depth of emotions....the beauty of broken things. They produce the best music, after all.
[Lobelia does appreciate a good book on occasion, but unsurprisingly, Lobelia prefers listening to music and spoken word over text on a page. All the same, he finds himself more and more pleased with Vergilius' answer, nodding enthusiastically as he speaks.]
Oui, oui, that's quite true! There is beauty to be found even in destruction, non? Nothing is infini, every life has an expiration date... but skillful artistry can render a fleeting tragedy permanent. We would all do well to see the value in both life and death.
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The flames his hand stokes are much more familiar, eliciting a wave of shivers and the low, guttering moans to match. His fingers, once firmly grasping Vergilius' shoulders, have begun to quiver. That smile... It's almost unnerving, so different from what Lobelia is used to from the man. All the same, it's alluring, inviting, and Lobelia gives into the temptation to lean in and kiss him.
It's a mess of heavy breaths and clicking teeth, his attention too thoroughly divided between one source of pleasure and the next, Vergilius' palm stained damp with his precum. With each passing moment, he throws down more and more of his weight onto Vergilius' hips, the cadence of their bodies as pleasing to his ears as it is to every other part of him. He won't last much longer, his kisses devolving to little more than shameless panting into Vergilius' mouth, but he resists the urge to come as long as he can. A little more time to remain like this, a little more time to savor it, and more importantly, if this bliss must end, he wants it to end right where it began— with Vergilius.]
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[He is no longer conscious of the garden around them. He's not even fully conscious of their state here, as the dead grasping onto something that for a moment makes them feel alive like nothing before. There's only Lobelia. It all seems to begin and end with him, from the way their bodies press into each other, mouths gasping for air.]
[He can't help but writhe a little as he feels himself continue to move into the other man with reckless abandon, trying to focus on keeping the pace as his hand strokes and grips and keeps hold where he can. Lobelia. Lobelia. Lobelia. The man had ripped out his heart. For some reason the scene comes to mind with no prompting. The pain in his chest like a macabre blossoming flower, the heat of the other's hand inside of him, glinting white teeth set in a pretty, boyish face...]
Ah...
[A hiccup, a gasp, and a groan is all that warns the man as it all seems to crash together, his climax hitting hard as he thrusts his hips up one last time, feeling little twitches of shockwaves moving through his body. One last kiss, stolen as he feels his hand give one last languid stroke to Lobelia, hoping to feel a stream of heat in return.]
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Lobelia is as enlivened as he is spent, overwhelmed, that odd dichotomy raging inside of him while he presses sloppy kisses to Vergilius' mouth, savoring every ragged whisper. Lobelia, Lobelia, Lobelia. He's never cared much for his name, it holds a different significance to him now.
"Love and devotion," his parents told him. "That's what lobelias represent." How ironic that he's found some truth to his name after all.
Lobelia rides that wave as far as it will take them, eventually ceding to the hazy afterglow and resting his head on Vergilius' chest. He can hear the same heart he'd torn from his chest beating away, a symbol of the man's staunch refusal to give up even in death. Despite everything, Lobelia finds its thrumming soothing. Still... is it really alright if he stays here? Lobelia doesn't want to part from Vergilius, not just yet, but he slowly begins to pick himself up in the selfish hope that he'll be dragged back down.]
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[The strands of the man's hair are tickling his skin. In the haze of his release, Vergilius realizes the shift of the man to move away - and it's like instinct, a kneejerk reflex. His unsoiled hand moves to wrap around the other's shoulders, pulling him down to its proper place.]
[His voice comes quiet, almost a whisper.]
This is what you took from me, then.
[Listen. Listen to it.]
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When Vergilius tells him to listen now, Lobelia hears it. It sinks in, echoes in his head over and over and over again. This is what you took from me.
It never mattered how many people he robbed of their happiness in the past. It didn't matter who they were, what their dreams and aspirations were, what lengths they'd gone to in their brief existences to pursue their own happiness. Everyone has the right to be happy, his parents told him, but Lobelia found one convenient excuse after the next to disregard everyone's happiness but his own.
Happiness should be pursued by oneself. Happiness is only for those who have the means to achieve it. Happiness is a finite resource, and if you don't fight for it, you'll never have the chance to grasp it. Excuse after excuse after excuse, and it's all falling apart now beneath the steady thrum of Vergilius' heart.
Lobelia falls silent and very, very still. He had never felt warmth like he does when he's connected to Vergilius, and by the same token, he's never felt such emptiness, such desolation. If nothing else, he manages to draw in a breath, steady himself, to deliver his response. Turning Vergilius' words over and over in his mind, there's only one answer Lobelia can give him.]
Je suis désolé.
[What a horrid feeling regret is. He'll consider himself fortunate if he never has to feel it again.]
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[But even so...even as he finds that soft spot now opened to him and digs into it with little care for if it bleeds, there's the realization that there's a soft spot in the first place. Lobelia had never felt like this before, had he? Vergilius, with the weight of endless regret weighing down his soul, now plucking a bit of it up between thumb and forefinger to place against the other's tongue. The other will never understand the full depths of it, but if he can give him a taste of it, make him understand, feel it to the core of his being, perhaps that mite of cruelty is worth it.]
[But even as he's imparting this lesson, the soft words come. Some of the coldness abates, like frost on a warming fall morning. After a moment, a sigh moves through him as he closes his eyes. He threads his fingers up, brushing through the man's curls of hair.]
[The air is pleasant. It always is. But the heat of the other man is also pleasant, possibly even more so.]
...I know. I know, Lobelia.
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Can he handle this? If he can't get ahold of himself now, then when? Lobelia's eyes scan the horizon, but he says nothing to Vergilius of his desire to flee. That would draw his suspicion, wouldn't it? Out him as a spineless coward, or so he feels when Vergilius takes to stroking through his hair and he can do nothing but squeeze his eyes shut and cede to it. His touch is much too warm, much too inviting, and Lobelia doesn't know how he'll survive without it now.
He has to try, try to affect some sort of calm nonchalance before this miserable feeling overtakes him. It's easy to tell through Lobelia's theatrical sigh that he's forcing himself, but he would rather play a role than let this ugliness inside of himself seep out.]
C'est dommage! I could spend the rest of my life atoning and it would never be enough. Are you quite certain you want to humor me after the harm I've done to you?
[Maybe he'd feel better if Vergilius said no. Maybe this aching in his chest would cease if he admitted to having second thoughts. If only, if only.]
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[Now you know how I feel. Now you can see, through one glimpse, what my existence is like, day by day.]
[But none of those words come to mind. Lobelia even reminds him - he is the one who caused him such torment all this time. He deserves the punishment. Even now, the metallic taste of blood splattering on him from his vengeance in the form of a ripped out heart seems potent. Many souls have met their end at the end of this man.]
[But can he judge, himself, when he's made so many orphans out of children? Can he bring retribution, when he himself doesn't feel he's received enough of it himself for his own sins?]
...It's never enough for me. I've accepted that. [After all, he is just a shade in a dark forest, lamenting forever on what has been lost and what will be lost. Nothing will bring his loved ones back. Nothing will completely ease the guilt in his heart. So it goes.] Humor you, though...
[He doesn't know. He does know. His own heart beats fretfully with the weight of emotion he can't even begin to comprehend. Ugly, ugly...they're both ugly creatures. He leans in, his lips trailing against the other's forehead in an almost unconscious little movement.]
Perhaps I'm the only one who can.
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He's not done piling up regrets, either, seeking out comfort from the man he stole everything from. Lobelia leans in like a flower desperate to soak in the sun when his lips brush along his forehead, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding onto him as if he has any right to. If Vergilius desires to, he can brush him off, push him away, and Lobelia won't hold it against him. Until then, his warmth is the only thing keeping that storm raging inside of him from ripping him apart.]
I'm afraid so, but that doesn't mean that you have no choice in the matter. Toss me aside if it suits you, Vergilius. I won't give chase.
[Not anymore, not with all the irrevocable harm he's done. Even an oath made in blood is one Lobelia will agree to rectify if Vergilius truly wishes to be free of him. That would save him some grief, wouldn't it? It won't give him his life back, but it's the only consolation Lobelia can offer him now.]
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[There's no harshness in his tone as one would expect - he's stating it as fact. That is what happened. This same man now cradled under his arm, both of them naked in a sea of flowers, had been the very one to push him to his limits. He can't forget that. One can't simply wipe away the deeds of yesterday like chalk off a board.]
[And yet, and yet, and yet...]
[I won't give chase.]
[He doesn't know why that statement feels like a needle wedging into his heart. He shouldn't feel this way, damn it-! I deserve it. I don't deserve it. Let me be. I don't want to be alone. You killed me. I killed you. I bound myself to you. I can't stand you. I never want to see you again. I want to keep you close and never let you go. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I l-]
[Vergilius lets out a grunt, his face marred with a grimace. The typical wave of anger, as always. And yet the words that come out may be surprising, something a little melancholy in his tone.]
...You would throw our oath aside, just like that?
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This was a choice he should've given Vergilius a long, long time ago, back when he wouldn't have deliberated long on his answer. Now that he is, Lobelia's lips curl into a wry smile, finding that sour response to be an answer in and of itself. The words that follow are simply confirmation, one last dagger in his selfish little heart.
He can't let this man go. Not now, not ever. Blessed with reciprocity that he doesn't deserve and has hardly earned, Lobelia sits up on an elbow, frames Vergilius' face in his hand. If he won't leave of his own accord, severing the ties between them, Lobelia stands no chance of accomplishing the same. He won't even try.]
Jamais. I could never do such a thing even if I tried. Surely you realize it too.
[He'd fallen too hard, too fast, too far, after sending himself hurtling into the the darkness in pursuit of him. It's the paradox that has Lobelia measuring his breaths so that the redness in his eyes doesn't give way to anything as shameless as tears, but he very much doubts even this will get past Vergilius. So it goes.]
I would rather cease to be than be without you. At the same time, it's now your happiness I'm responsible for. If you told me to disparaître, I would have to decide between my selfishness and your happiness, non? Rather, I already have.
[Lobelia leans in, presses a kiss to Vergilius' lips and lingers in it. He's so selfish, callous, cruel, and yet he hopes it warms Vergilius just as it warms him. Reciprocation despite it all.]
Je te veux. If you ever wish to sever our oath, you'll have to kill me for good. I lack the strength to do so myself.
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[How funny. Perhaps he should be asking that of himself, too. He's lived in denial so long that its felt he's become less human for it. Destruction is his bread and butter. No one else should be pulled into that. Maybe not even someone like Lobelia, with those strange, reddened eyes that almost feel ready to burst into tears.]
[But the man touches his face, kisses him, and that caged, soft, terrible little black thing he calls a heart skips a little beat, as if he's some schoolboy eager to receive affections from a forbidden crush. He betrays himself, constantly. His own decisions pave the way to hell. He was doomed from the start of meeting the man from Lobelia. Not a fly to a spider, but predators finding they share the same web.]
Kill you for good? You suffered death over and over before this and you're still here. [A kiss, light as a feather.] How laughable. [Another kiss, with a rasp of a sigh.] I would call you a bastard for being invincible just so you can get all you can from this.
[Reciprocation despite it all. His thumb tickles over the nape of the man's neck as he steals yet another kiss for his troubles. his usual deep tone tinged with a sarcastic lightness so uncommon to him.]
So I'll have to figure out my way around this conundrum. Guess you'll have to live a little while longer.
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To think there could be anyone remotely like himself was too absurd a thought, and yet here he is, trading easy kisses with a man whose body count is as innumerous as his own. Here he is, finding his happiness amongst all that destruction. What part of this is deserved? None of it, but it's yet one more thing Lobelia has eagerly taken without asking, no trace of shame in the way he eagerly moves into every kiss, laughter light on his lips.
The weight of regret is a heavy, burdensome thing, but the lightness in Vergilius' tone does much to keep his discomfort at bay. Everything will be alright so long as he has his guide to follow, right? He'll find his footing in the end, uncertain as each step feels now.]
Mm, but it was only thanks to The Tower that I was brought back again and again to endure more châtiment. Our pact has been severed now.
[...And in its place, he's forged one with Vergilius. Lobelia connects the dots in his head before the words have the chance to leave his mouth, a peal of amusement snaking out of him instead. Pressing their foreheads together, it's his turn to cheekily thieve a kiss.]
That means, should we manage to find our way out of vie après la mort, my fate rests in your hands! Guider or tueur... You'll have to make up your mind eventually.
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[No more world. No more destruction - at least, not on the level that Lobelia had enacted before. Just a man, and his gifts.]
...Ah. [And now the dots are connecting for him, too, the implication unsubtle as anything. Lobelia takes that kiss, but Vergilius retaliates by pressing one against his cheek, murmuring into his skin.] So I'm your Tower, now.
[He even doesn't know what to feel about that - its a complicated thorny thing, like so many things are in this relationship. He did want to turn over the world, as part of his dream. To pull out the roots, and lay the field for something new. The place he came from was beyond salvation. He had considered it, and perhaps he became that colossus if only for but a moment, pulled back by the light of a young girl at his side. But it didn't erase it. It's still there. And its maybe why Lobelia was pulled to him as he was.]
[A pact, indeed, was formed. And now the magician is at his beck and call, as easy as anything. Then that's it, then. He will secure that single hope he's fighting for. And then they will both be destroyed for everything they are. If not, the world has another thing coming for it.]
[This flow cannot be stopped.]
I suppose I will. But we're stuck for the time being. How unfortunate. We'll have to work hard for that grand escape.
[This is...not working hard, but they don't really have options here, okay.]
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Back to the topic on hand, he turns to Vergilius and lifts a finger, looking to make a point.]
You certainly fit the role, but you're more to me than that! I have no intention of utilizing you as some instrument of destruction unless you will it.
[He'd hate for Vergilius to get the wrong idea and assume Lobelia was simply looking for a Tower With Benefits. He could've found a way to fuck The Tower if he wanted to, rest assured.]
And for that matter, I want to be of use to you as well. I insist! Should we start by burning every last blade of grass in this accursed place? Would you like to turn it into a true and proper paysage d'enfer? Heh-ahaha!
[Well, someone's clearly feeling better. That should make Vergilius happy, surely.]
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I would hope not. I became a Color to try to avoid that kind of thing. I work where I can, but pity you if you ever deem me as a tool.
[And that comes with its own flare of a red gaze, warning like a red flag. It's not a serious threat, at the very least. He moves his arms upward (pausing to wipe off his hand on the robe between them) before resting his head back with a sigh. He glances over at Lobelia. Burning every last blade of grass in this place...a part of it does think he would take pleasure in that, but...]
Easier said than done. This whole place is that wizard's domain. He could probably fix it with a snap of his fingers...
[Though...maybe not? Hm.]
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Thinking about it now, Lobelia sighs — practically swoons — and flops back down on Vergilius and bats his lashes at him.]
Mm, that's right! You're fort and capable and far from a mindless tool. That's what makes you so irrésistible~
[So irresistible that he'll forgive Vergilius for smearing cum on his robe. Be thankful.]
If nothing else, I expect you entertain me while we remain trapped here. You aren't eager to let your skills dull either, non? We'll see how much Monsieur Merlin will let us get away with.
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[The brushing off of the compliments is less of an eye roll and more of a general awkwardness in...not really being used to accepting compliments in the first place. Even someone as mighty as a Color seems like he will never get that used to his role.]
[He shakes his head, slightly, but the gears are turning. What ARE they capable of, here? That's a question and a half. Surely Merlin won't mind two men of destruction doing their equivalent of a stretch.]
Entertain you? Don't make me laugh. [He's pulling his hand out to grasp the tip of Lobelia's chin, thumb wound still rough, even though it's no longer bleeding.] But its not like we have many other options. Unless you like doing arts and crafts.
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Hm... No, I will leave that to people more artistically inclined.
[Or systematically break everything in the arts and crafts room and enjoy the dulcet tones of pottery smashing. That sounds much more engaging. Lobelia lifts his hand to meet Vergilius', studying the injured tip of his finger before pressing a kiss to it.]
Why don't we clean ourselves up first? We can explore what options we have after that.
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[Don't be mean, Vergilius. He murmurs a low noise at the light kiss, fingertip twitching slightly. The other man has a good suggestion, though - after the peak of sex, sometimes the last thing you want to feel is wet and sticky.]
[He's starting to push himself up on his elbows.]
Very well. There was a river nearby, wasn't there?
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[It takes a brute to know one, Vergie. Lobelia sits up and gets to his feet, but it's... effort. Ah. The sex was worth it, but he may take advantage of the hobble in his step to hold onto Vergilius as they make their way towards the lake.
Lobelia doesn't hesitate to twine his arm around Vergilius' and claim his hand for good measure, but before they set off, Lobelia casts a downward glance at their clothes, namely his robes.]
Tsk tsk! You've filthied my clothes, Vergilius. [totally ignoring the fact this was a team effort] We can clean ourselves, but what will I change into?
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[He says, almost a little quietly. Sometimes you're a horrifically powerful Guy to the point you're almost an unbeatable cryptid but deep down....you like a good poem or two.]
[He's also moving to stand up, only a slight wobble in his movements as he stands up straight. A sigh comes as he feels the man grasp his hand, but where he would just yank his hand away before, he lets it sit this time. Lobelia's hand feels so slender and soft in his. An amazing thing, given the amount of blood the magician has spilled in his past. He vaguely wonders if he's ever held a weapon before. Probably not.]
Really. [He shoots an unamused glance over his shoulder at the crumpled, stained pile.] Go naked for all I care. You were the one who offered it in the first place.
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[Lobelia sounds genuinely surprised, but he doesn't overemphasize his shock, because the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. He accused Vergilius of being a bleeding heart in the past, didn't he? A love of poetry suits Lobelia's mental image of who the man is at his core quite nicely. It's also rather endearing, prompting Lobelia to squeeze Vergilius' hand as they walk through the flowers.]
I shouldn't be humoring you when you're treating me so callously, but alas, you've piqued my curiosité! What sort of poetry moves a weary soul like yours?
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[His shoulders shift up and down. He's never really talked about this with....well, no one alive currently, surely. There's a little bit of that vulnerable crack that Lobelia has found it so easy to worm into, and he wonders how the man got so good at it. Something about him naturally feels like it belongs under his skin.]
I don't have any large preferences. But there's something nice about the depth of emotions....the beauty of broken things. They produce the best music, after all.
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Oui, oui, that's quite true! There is beauty to be found even in destruction, non? Nothing is infini, every life has an expiration date... but skillful artistry can render a fleeting tragedy permanent. We would all do well to see the value in both life and death.
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